It takes more

It takes more than
a mother to
raise a child and it
takes more than
a mother to fail a child.
It takes a community,
a village,
an Army of acquaintances an
an Army of choosing
silence or action.
of Choosing apathy
or offering. An Army of "do you need"s and
"would you like"s A tribe of smiles, and open
arms help build steps and platforms
for children to climb above
the hurt, and the anger.  The debris of rejection.
So, if a child fails do not blame the mother.
The face of the abuser is the abused.
The hands that committed the crime were
first the hands of a victim
asking, "where was my Army"?
Children, like moths, flock to the light.  If only a few had
the courage shine for them.
If not, the darkness will grow inside of them until they are darkness looking
exterminate that which makes them remember
they were unworthy
of
being
RAISED
above the
debris.

Night song

He crouches at
the window on
fragile arms and legs so
easily broken,
a Grasshopper of
a boy.
The curtains whip
easily around him pregnant
with night air and spontaneous
melodies birthed by
a faceless back yard
musician.  Round
silky notes run a way
from the plucked strings
of a phantom guitar and are
soaked up by his
frail body perched on
curled white toes and
long fingers that
press delicately into
his mattress, leaving
not the slightest dent.
Unnatural.
The music fills him up to flooding
and A smile rises from deep with
in, works up his spine with a jerk
and presses outward pushing up his soft
silvery cheeks.  He comes alive under the stars
and darkness and canopy of leaves.  11 years
of living and he is has mastered
the Dance; knowing
which moments to take pause and which
to let pass by on the breeze.

Untitled

Come to me
Stand on the porch of my heart the
light burning to draw
you in leaving me no
choice in welcoming you.  Squeeze you
between my arms.  Trying not
to let you touch me. Your clang-kity clangk
monologue makes
it hard to
like the you I see in you.    I lose
myself to the buzzing
filament to survive it.  The judge holding
court inside of
me throws down the gavel "contempt!" snapping me back to you.  I spread
a generous smile, like a white flag between myselves, the one
that wants to hate you because
you deserve it with all
that ugliness inside of you, and
the one that wants
to love you because you need it, and I know
I'm ugly too.  And so I let you whir chaotically on my porch
but I won't invite you in.  And you feel comforted and accepted because you
are.  I compulsively love you, and can't wait
for you to leave so I can stop.  So I can go back inside out of your darkness,
Inside where the people capable of loving me, the few
I've invited in,
wait.

**as usual I hate this poem, as I hate all my poems when I first write them.  And I hope that those I've let in know who they are: Lisa, Casey, Christine, Laura, my family... among others.

Houses don't know you're dead.

HOUSES DON'T KNOW YOU'RE DEAD

Your trinkets stand dutifully
waiting for your
return.

The plates crusty like
moons in the sink bear truths
to me that you will not return and I
must deal with the dozens of ends
left flipping loose.

quiet and empty would be a relief from
the you I feel pressing against
every wall at once.


...unfinished, and note... this is a reflection I had while walking past a house whose owner recently passed away. None of my friends or family have died!

Father's Shadow

Our sons'
spongy spines, flanked by
tiny scapula and little sinewy
blossoms,
promise manhood.

They stand straighter,
shoulders grow wider, when speaking
of you. You are the
pride that inflates
their chests.

They see your face in
freshly plowed roadside
snow. Hear your name in
the Cadence of my
swift steps, as
I hunt down
my strength.

Your shadow suggests
a gait. Their backs will
grow tall; thick
spines reaching
great heights, because
Where ever they may
go, they will chose
to walk like you.

sleeping possessed (military wife)

I had a
dream you were
dead.
Bestial cries ravaged
my throat rendering
the flesh pink &
ready for
butcher.
The earthquake in
my chest forced my
ribs to crack & pull
apart leaving my
heart exposed, ripe,
begging to be
plucked up &
squished between the
fingers of some
giant, diapered curiosity like a
cherry tomato on
a desertous lawn.
"take it please"

I awake. Finally, after
long days, Relief sprinkles
gently, untieing every
muscle in my
tight body.
Breath comes
joyously now,
this nightmare harvesting my
ache for you.
You are still alive.

To my Monkey Hamunan

Poor
little
monkey no
one loves. Sky
walking and
carrying the world on
fingertips. A
freckle in the
white. A
blemish punished by
perfection. Stupid
happy
monkey not
knowing he can't
walk on
air, can't
carry the
world without getting
squished,
an
oozey
red
pancake invisible under
ice, his smile
distorted
flat
and unrecognizable.
This straightens my
vertebrae one
by one, and makes
the edges of
my lips
curl
pushing up
my cheeks until
my eyes
disappear, and
my face
gets sore.
Stupid
happy
monkey.

WOMAN

I am wearing bear skin. My shoulders sag 

beneath the weight of it. The space inside 

filled with 

tight lips, and stern intolerance. I wonder if my 

mother gave me this.

An Heirloom? 

I see other mothers light, and knowing. As if they were made for this cloak. They carry it with straight up spines. Soft faces, and warm words. I am awkward among them. Quazimoto.

This is my mother's legacy.

I hated her. I hated her fishing. Making me stick hook through worm guts. I hated her roofing our house where everyone could see her dirty, and working like a man. Nawed dirty nails. I hated her, telling me not to care what anyone else thought. I hated her yelling at men in charge. Loud mouth didn't know her place. I hated her not wearing make up. I hated her being hard, not tolerating excuses. I hated her.

I am her.

I watched my mother, Quazi-femella. I know that it takes a stong back to carry such a cloak.

I am glad I am her.

My strong back, precious heirloom.

VIRGIN MOTHER

DIET,
Secrets of
THIN WOMEN,
secrets he won't
tell you that will
KEEP HIM,
lose 10lbs in a week, make-up
secrets from the stars,
What your mother never told you,
how to keep him HAPPY,
foreplay 101,
Make your body
SWIM-SUIT WORTHY
for summer,

Working mother, sex
goddess, bake the perfect
pie (but don't eat it)!
Silence is a virtue.

Reverent Devotion

from a run

A cathedral built of bending
Sycamores
Whining in the wind. So many
sorrows, so much
laughter splintering silence
as they straighten their spines
to make
room
for
more

Life is bigger
bigger than the
space we
designate for
our God
Bigger
than the
space our God
Designated to hold us.
Everybody seems to
think they'd be
a better
boss.

Fat Arteries fracture
the shadows
illuminating
our cuts into the
earths flesh.

we giants slumber in
blackness.
forgotten.
Lights can't wake us.
we don't
exsist
too busy cutting arteries to be
distracted by
exsistance.
Too Busy taking what
we were given and
pimpin' it out so
we can be
comfortable
Comfortably numb
blinded
unable to see
darkness for the light
unable to hear the screaming
in the forest,
of our children,
we are so able to builld yet
so unable to build big
enough.


I MIGHT HATE THIS POEM